


A Tale of Two Cities

by trashemdudes



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU, Superman - All Media Types
Genre: ...eventually, Adventure, Family, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-17
Updated: 2015-08-15
Packaged: 2018-04-09 18:36:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4359914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trashemdudes/pseuds/trashemdudes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A mourning nine year old Bruce Wayne is stranded in Smallville with his butler and two flat tires on his car. He doesn't realize what a ride he's in for until it's too late.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Under sunny skies, the inconspicuous black car passed a picketed sign stating, “Welcome to Smallville.”

Bruce tugged at his tie impatiently, leaning on the car’s window with a muffled groan, his cheek sticking to the glass. The scenic countryside rolled past the car window with the golden wheat shimmering in the distance, irritatingly bright and unfamiliar. He understood that he had to get out and exercise, but he had only agreed for Alfred’s sake. It didn’t matter to him if he turned sickly and girls chose tanned brawny football jocks over him. Bruce could’ve countered Alfred’s argument easily (He was _nine_  for one), but the butler would've smiled and insisted anyway. And he wouldn’t have won without feeling interminably guilty for saying something so selfish.

He really didn’t need anyone.

No one could return to him what he had lost.

And the one person he had left, Alfred, was more than enough.

“Master Bruce. Isn’t this scenery wonderful?”

“Yes, Alfred.” Bruce managed a courteous tone. 

He shifted his feet against the base of his leather chair, the soles of his feet just brushing the carpeted floor. He ducked his head down, staring at his lap, faintly registering his solid black clothing, formal, uncomfortable, and the only color Bruce was willing to wear. It felt wrong otherwise.

Bruce bit his lip; he wanted to ignore the sudden but familiar tears of frustration and resentment that bubbled up inside him in response to the forced outing, to the sight of his clothing. Then he quietly pushed it away, watching it float out to sea, replacing it with dry amusement instead. Alfred wouldn’t understand no matter how many times Bruce tried to explain that he didn’t want to go outside, that he didn’t want to have fun or smile or laugh, that he didn’t want to wake up knowing he was alone, his parents were locked in boxes, six feet under and forever gone from Bruce’s grasp.

He dug his pale, rounded nails into his soft palm and sniffed, looking out the window more resolutely than ever. His eyes and nose burned.

No crying in front of Alfred, Bruce reminded himself. Alfred had known his parents longer, and he had never once been anything but a pillar of support for Bruce. It was because he wanted to let Bruce be selfish. But he shouldn’t have to.

Suddenly, though, Bruce supposed, not unexpectedly with the unpaved dirt road and the fact that they were out in the countryside, the car tilted and moved forward jerkily. Alfred declared, “Well, Master Bruce. I believe we have a flat tire.”

His blue eyes didn’t turn from the window and the idyllic scene reminiscent of past vacations with his parents, of rolling around until grass stains covered his clothes, his hands sticky from fresh berries before lunch, his father’s normally impeccable suit wrinkling as he lifted Bruce up-- “Two flat tires, Alfie.” Bruce stated wryly in an attempt to cut off his train of thought. “One in the back and one in the front. Same side.”

Alfred gave him an exasperated smile, twisting his torso to stare at the morose boy settled in the corner of the car, “You're an entirely precocious child.”

“I wouldn’t dare, Monsieur Pennyworth.” Bruce couldn’t help the faint grin that covered his lips and with a rush of guilt, he forced his expression back to neutral again. Alfred raised an eyebrow before climbing out of the driver’s seat and crouching down to take a look at the punctured wheels. He let out a long-suffering sigh, pulling off his gloves and placing them in the safety of his jacket pocket.

The young boy, his position the same as before, glanced through his peripheral vision to see the crown of his butler’s head before he quickly shoved the sleeves of his jacket to his eyes and wiped away any tears and snot away before they could fall. He wouldn’t think about it.

He should try to help Alfred. They probably had some duct tape or some other material in the trunk that could patch the hole up enough for them to get to a nearby gas station; the car hadn’t been too unstable so the inner tube probably hadn’t been broken-- but Bruce’s body was dead weight.

It was the same every morning and the effort it took for him to crawl out of his bed was inordinate. Despite Alfred’s beliefs, Bruce woke up at 7:00 a.m. every day as he had before that night. And then he laid there until Alfred came to wake him up at 9:00.

Bruce ignored the numbness in his legs and took in another heavy breath, his chest weighing him down.

He could still feel the weight of the small beads against his chest, the flat circle in his inside pocket, all hidden under, inside his clothes as he safeguarded the precious memories he had left.

Sometimes he woke up screaming.

He had started wetting the bed again.

Alfred never said anything and unfailingly came to comfort him each time. Alfred would give him warm milk and act out characters from Shakespeare in an outrageous fashion until Bruce fell asleep from exhaustion in the dim, large room to the soothing lull of his baritone. And in the morning, Alfred would take care of everything else.

Bruce gagged himself now, humiliated and ashamed and so tired. He didn’t want Alfred to worry and see that same hint of defeat on his face every single morning, each bag under his eyes highlighted by the weak offering of dawn. But every day, he still had to wake up to his soaked bed, lying there, staring up at the white, empty ceiling until the precise knock on his door. Alfred would walk in, prim and proper and say, “Master Bruce. Time to wake up.”

He would keep his eyes shut as Alfred opened the curtains. Alfred would tie the thick drapes before he went to Bruce’s closet and selected clothing. As he laid the clothing at the edge of Bruce’s bed, he would call out softly, “Master Bruce, we have a long day ahead of us.” Bruce would let his eyes slowly fall open and in his peripheral view he would see Alfred smiling at him his usual smile and that was the only thing that got him to turn his head and sit up and _pretend_ as Alfred removed the dirtied sheets.

 

“I believe we’re stuck. And the last gas station we passed was an hour ago.” Alfred peered into the car, his sleeves rolled up, and his eyes squinting in the dimmer light of the car. “I’ll call the car company and request for assistance, but I wouldn’t count on their appearance anytime soon. We may have to settle here for the night if that’s alright with you, sir.”

Bruce’s dark hair tickled the back of his neck as he turned to look at the sympathetic, half-smile of the man he had known since he was born and nodded. He had only noticed it recently, the burgeoning wrinkles, faint, on the butler’s skin. “I’ll be fine Alfred.” He schooled his features, softening his facial muscles into a tight smile.

Alfred offered him an indulging, knowing one in return. “Certainly, sir, but I think I might still look around to see if there are any other possible accommodations. The countryside tends for much more welcoming people.”

Bruce nodded, his smile plastered on before he turned to his window again, gazing out on the same scene of brick and blood and the limp bodies of his parents.

* * *

 

 

A few hours later, Bruce blinked, woozily, his eyelids resisting his efforts under the hazy heat and his thick clothing. He licked his chapped lips, finding his mouth cottony. He rubbed his drool from his face, flushing.

There was the sound of crickets chirping and although it was getting darker, the stifling heat had remained.

Alfred still wasn’t back yet, and Bruce forced himself to sit still, to continue looking out the window. Alfred would come back soon. He was groggy; he couldn’t bring himself to the apathy he had cloaked himself in earlier. Everything felt raw, going in and out of focus in the heat. He shifted in the heavy silence of the car. The faint buzz in his ears grew louder, deafening him.

He could call Alfred. They both had phones. And Alfred would pick up, answer with his calming, “Hello, Master Bruce.” Like always.

But if he didn’t?

The lone child sat in the spacious car, body suddenly frigid as he stared out at the expanse of crops and the lack of movement, the eeriness of a world without a person in sight. He could imagine never seeing Alfred again, running through those fields and never finding the only person he had left, never escaping the tall cornstalks, getting lost in the monotonous fields that stretched out to the horizon, that hid everything. And he would look up at the empty dimming sky that whispered something that Bruce knew ever since that night, even with Alfred by his side.

Bruce was alone.

Alfred hadn’t taken Bruce along with him because Bruce had insisted on staying with their luggage. Bruce had complained about a long walk. 

He bit his trembling lower lip, forcing it to stay still. Alfred was okay. Alfred was okay. Alfred was okay. But in response, every possible horrible scenario arose in his mind of Alfred being ripped apart by hunting dogs, being mauled by a bull, being shot, blood pooling, his body growing cold and his stiff, expression as he was placed into the dirt, leaving Bruce to relive it over and over.

The cold horror of the thoughts settled heavily in his stomach, and immediately, he leaped out of the car, almost tripping on the edge of the car floor to land in the dusty road. His heart thudded frantically in his chest as he swiveled his head back and forth to try to see if he could see anything in the distance; he cursed. Not again. Not---Bruce couldn’t help the tears that collected, overflowing onto his cheeks.

The sun was more orange than yellow, and it hovered over the horizon of watermelon plants and corn stalks, threatening to set them aflame.

He took in a ragged breath, hiccuping ever so slightly as he backed up into the car again, the back of his knees pressed against the car floor’s edge; he clutched his sleeves, bunching them up into his fists.

 _Don’t cry, Bruce._ The familiar words from his father refilled his reservoir of tears and they trickled down his face, mixing with his snot. The words that came after: _It’ll be alright Bruce. Mommy and I, we’re here for you. There’s no need to be scared._ His chuckle.  _Trust me, that spider is more scared of you than you are of it._  were still in his father’s voice, but it was all in Bruce’s head when it should’ve been said out loud. In the familiar baritone that rumbled in his father’s chest.

Bruce could almost feel the vibrations now, the scratch of his father’s faint stubble, the scent of aftershave and antiseptics. “They're scared of me. I'm not scared of them,” Bruce whispered to himself, his voice cracking as he clenched his teeth and let the rest of his tears roll down his cheeks.

He could feel the string of pearls, meticulously cleaned and strung back together, the watch, winded daily, pressing against him, burning into his skin even through his heavy, scratchy clothing.

It’s for Alfred. 

You don't get to be weak.

Bruce looked around quickly. The luggage was hardly important, and the car company wouldn’t be able to get here until the morning at the earliest. If Alfred hadn’t returned then it meant either he was hurt and possibly kil--kidnapped or he had found help. It was unlikely that the dependable butler had gotten lost or had gone too far. Alfred wouldn’t leave him alone for too long.

He recalled Alfred had first gone to west, to the rows of half harvested cornstalks. He found confirmation in the faint footprints left in the dust. Alfred’s.

Opening the trunk, Bruce considered what tools they had, what he should bring when he heard a voice behind him.

“Bruce?”

Bruce nearly tripped and fell into the depths of the velvet car trunk. What if-what if-

Bruce clenched a pair of tennis shoes and whipped around, holding it out, pointed at the stranger -- to find a wide blue eyed boy, his black hair curling slightly at the end, smiling at him.

The smile faltered as the boy’s eyes flickered to the shoe Bruce still wielded. “I’m um...Mr.Pennyworth...and I heard...I was nearby by chance and uh, I heard...I saw the car, it really sticks out like a sore thumb...and are you okay?”

Bruce’s felt his panic morph into embarrassment. He slowly put his arm down and looked at the figure before him, clothed in overalls with a muddled expression on his face.

He tightened his grip on the shoes as he said hotly, “Who are you?”

 

The farm boy stepped back slightly at the glare he was given, as he offered a pacifying smile, flushing awkwardly. “I’m Clark Kent. My parents own that land over there. We have a dog and horses and cows and a lot of chickens and they’re really cute, but sometimes they bite you and it can smell really horrible sometimes and Ma’s really good at making pie and cooking and sewing and yelling and Pa’s the best at building and farming and he can really make anything. He made Ma a rocking chair and me a toy car and-and...and...”

He trailed off, fidgeting as he stared at Bruce who’s wary expression hadn’t changed.

Clark looked skyward and Bruce could tell he was trying not to laugh.

There was a long awkward silence, filled by the chirping of crickets before Bruce opened his mouth to say something, but before he could, he heard a familiar and breathless, yell from across the corn field and his neck snapped to the side in reflex to see two men running through the foliage.

Alfred was disheveled for once as he swept Bruce up in his arms; he could smell dirt and sweat and detergent. Faintly, Bruce could smell the lingering smog of Gotham. “Master Bruce! I was worried about having left for so long, but I found Mr. Kent’s farm; I saw it in the distance just as I was about to give up and return, so it was quite a trek. Are you alright, my dear boy?”

Bruce pressed his face into the smooth cloth of the butler’s jacket and let his shoulders fall, collapsing into his guardian's arms as he took in a deep, shaky breath.

Alfred was safe.

Alfred released him after a long moment and stared at the pale child’s red-rimmed eyes and his ruffled clothing, holding the boy’s cheeks in his palms, brushing his hair back affectionately before Bruce’s expression morphed and he jumped back onto Alfred, his slim arms squeezing the butler. “I’m fine Alfred. I’m-you’re fine. You’re fine.” He broke off into faint dry heaving sobs.

The butler pressed his face into his young wards neck and shifted the child’s weight, murmuring words of comfort before he noticed Clark twiddling his thumbs awkwardly at the side. He mouthed a thank you to the boy who flushed and nodded in return. After a long moment, Bruce, who had his face thoroughly cleaned by Alfred’s ever ready handkerchiefs, looked up.

The corner of Alfred's eyes was crinkling ‘Of course I’m fine, Master Bruce. I told you I won’t be leaving you anytime soon.”

Bruce sniffed and nodded, clinging onto the edge of Alfred’s sleeve despite the embarrassment creeping into him at the sight of the Kent boy’s curious eyes and the newcomer, an older man with greying hair in plaid and jeans surveying him.

The older man, maybe the child’s father? grandfather? clapped a callused hand on Alfred’s shoulder with a sincere smile. “Glad you found your boy Mr. Pennyworth.”

Alfred, his hand knotted in Bruce’s hair, glanced fondly at the boy’s small figure and the extra weight on his arm before looking up at the older man. “I am too, Mr. Kent, but please, call me Alfred. And as I mentioned earlier, this young man here is Bruce Wayne.”

He moved his hand to Bruce’s shoulder as Bruce’s reflexive manners kicked in; he smiled, offering a hand, “A pleasure to meet you Mr.Kent. I appreciate your arrival.”

“Quite the manners on this one. Been trying to get the same thing out of my boy Clark, but he’s a shy kid.” He let out a low chuckle, the crows feet of his eyes wrinkling pleasantly. Everything about him screamed warmth, the picture of humility, honesty and stability. Like a phantom made for Bruce personally. Clark fidgeted and the two boys made eye contact before Bruce smiled again, the lie coming easier this time; he offered his hand to Clark as well, “Apologies Mr. Kent Jr. I wasn’t very polite earlier. But it's a pleasure  to meet you as well.”

Bruce wondered slightly at how faint Clark’s grip was despite Bruce’s own practiced, firm handshake. The farmer’s son was treating his hand as if it was fragile, but when he glanced up from the surprisingly soft and smooth palm, he saw a wide, shy grin on the boy.

“Nice to meet you too, Bruce.” There was a faint lilt to Clark’s tone as he said Bruce’s name, asking for permission.

The Gotham boy smiled thinly, “Bruce.” There wasn’t any harm in being nice to some country kid. Not that Bruce wasn’t being considerably obvious about his agitation.

Clark lit up, “Clark, then.” Maybe he didn’t notice. Maybe he was considerably dense. He did look sort of stupid to Bruce, all smiles and dimples and that inane curl on his head...

Bruce ignored the lurch in his heart. Mother hadn't liked him talking like that. 

The farm boy was still smiling at him, and Bruce only gripped Alfred’s sleeve tighter. Alfred, who had been chatting to Mr.Kent, patted Bruce’s back in reassurance that they would be going soon before he asked with a wry look, “And may I ask, Master Bruce, why you’re holding your tennis shoes--” He glanced back at the trunk, “And why you’ve created a mess in the trunk?”

Bruce colored and fidgeted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry if this is weird, but I can never tell if someone wants a reply to their comment or not. So if you do comment, and want a response, put an @ at the beginning!


	2. Chapter 2

There was the creaking of the downstairs floorboards as Bruce listened to the humming of the fan in the room, the familiar rustle of  leaves and crickets chirping. The city of Gotham with its car horns and unwavering lights had been miles away when he was at home with Alfred and his parents, with the land and the scent of roses and sap.

He turned and tossed in the thin handmade quilt and sunk his teeth into his lower lip. There were multitudes of handmade photos, a child’s crayonned scribbles, the macaroni frame around it. It all screamed of something that Bruce would never have again.

Bruce ran his fingers over the pearls and smooth metal. There was still the faint scent of his mother’s perfume and his father’s hair gel. He shouldn’t be there. Not in some town in the middle of nowhere.

He needed to be in Gotham.

The sweat from his hand made the watch slippery. He clutched the joyless memorabilia tighter and fell asleep watching their dull shine.

* * *

“A British man?” She grinned, her smiles all warmth and comfort as she bustled around the kitchen, getting food ready for tomorrow.

“Born, and raised, really, until I came to work for the Wayne family after college.” Alfred accepted the proffered tea, breathing in the scent before taking a long sip and letting the flavor wash over his senses. He sighed in pleasure. “Wonderful tea if I may add, Mrs Kent. I’ve always had to have mine imported...luckily I swayed the late mistress and master of the house with my sensibilities.” He paused at the memory. “Young master Bruce refuses anything but. He grew up on it. His parents...” Alfred allowed the grieving smile to decorated his lips. “they were only humoring me when I gave the three-year old sir tea breaks but it’s really become a tradition for all of us now.” He could smell the scent of the blooming roses and feel the gentle sunlight dappling the gazebo through the trees onto the laughing family of three. There was the feel of the cold metal tray even through his gloves and the grass would rustle under his polished shoes while Bruce beamed up at him, his ruddy cheeks round and covered in crumbs as he showed Alfred his latest insectual find. Bruce would have his clothes crumpled and tea stains on his white shirt. Martha would be be laughing, watching her son run around amid the butterflies and dragonflies, and Thomas would be filching another cookie despite his self prescribed diet while his wife was distracted. They had been happy.

“Alfred?”

The butler shook his head away from his daydreams and stared at the kind, understanding expressions of these welcoming strangers.

He touched his cheeks with his gloves and the cloth dampened; he gave a little, resigned smile, a relieved surrender, to the Kents and offered his apologies.

They would have none of it and Mr. Kent, slapped Alfred on the back after a comforting pat, saying, “There’s nothing harder than losing a loved one, Alfred.” He held up the tea filled mug and toasted, “To the late Waynes and to a man who loves their son as his own.”

Alfred stared at the amber liquid, letting the steam rise into his face. And he smiled at the couple, raising his cup. Their mugs clinked and Jonathan Kent downed the hot liquid.

Martha and Thomas were gone, but it changed nothing for Alfred.

He was here for Bruce.

Behind him, Martha gave Alfred’s shoulder a comforting squeeze and said, “You’ve done a good job with that boy. Jonathan told me Bruce was about to run after you. Obviously he adores you as much as adore him.”

Alfred smiled as he cupped the mug with both hands and took a long sip. Then as he looked up, he winked, “You’ve done just as well with Clark. Quick to catch on, humble and I’m impressed by his speed. He reached the car in an instant. Must be the fresh air and all the work he does on the farm.”

He saw just the faintest tightening of the couple’s expression before Martha sighed, staring fondly at Jonathan. “A bit too well of a job. Clark’s eager to help outside, and Jonathan’s going to be out of work soon. All he’ll be growing is his gut.”

Her husband protested, even as he subtly patted his stomach.

She laughed, their eyes meeting with an expression Alfred had seen many times between Martha and Thomas. There was the familiar lurch in his heart at the thought of them and he smiled, excusing himself.

* * *

Martha placed the last dish onto the rack, sighing. “Jonathan, we’ll have to talk to Clark about that tomorrow.”

The older man ran a hand through his thinning hair. “...He knows. He was just excited at the thought of another boy his age here. You know he hasn’t had the easiest time at school...everyday he’s getting stronger, faster...”

His wife’s concerned expression softened. “Well we knew that day when we found him in that spaceship that he was something special. But we can’t keep protecting him forever.” The memory of discovering the crashed spaceship in the cornfield was one as clear as day for her. And the child they had found, as if fallen from heaven, was a gift that they never stopped appreciating. He was theirs. Their sweet, energetic, conscientious, righteous son.

“I’ll talk to him in the morning, Martha. He’ll be disappointed though. Boys his age, usually they bond by fighting, playing sports, wrestling...”

Martha wrapped her arms around Jonathan, placing her chin on his head. “I have a good feeling about Bruce though.”

He hummed as he took another sip of the tea. “Do you?”

She smiled. “I do.”

* * *

Alfred watched the slow rise and fall of Bruce’s chest. It was a relief, watching the boy sleep peacefully for once. Bruce had been plagued by nightmares since that night, screaming until his voice was hoarse in the morning. They had stopped recently, all of a sudden, but the same haunted expression never left the nine year old.

He slept in now, wet his bed, ate little. He was always distracted.

The funeral had been the worst of the days.

It had been cloudy that day, gloomy above the Wayne manor where only he, Bruce, and the priest stood. Philip had dared to be on a business trip.

The public would be allowed to come another day. Alfred had suggested going to the public memorial later because Bruce needed to know that even if his parents were gone, the good they had done lingered in the hearts of the citizens of Gotham. He needed to know there was still good.

Bruce had refused.

The day of, Bruce had had to be dressed by Alfred. He hadn’t eaten. He hadn’t spoken. He stood there stock still in his black drapery and stared at the coffins as he lost his parents yet again as they were swallowed by the earth.

Alfred watched, burning the sight of Bruce in black into his retinas, and his only thought was that the child before him couldn’t have been Bruce Wayne. Because Bruce was the child who slid down the railings no matter how many times you told him not to. He was the one that spent weeks imitating Alfred’s “funny way of speaking,” when Alfred first came to work at the manor. The one to figure simple, yet ingenious plans to steal cookies right from under Alfred’s nose. Bruce shouldn’t look so lifeless -- they just needed time, both of them. Give it a while and Bruce would be laughing again, he would have accepted his parents’ deaths and moved on.

They had returned to the mansion and Bruce had refused to be touched, screaming and thrashing if Alfred did.  He stood there in front of the painting of the three of them, expressionless.

Bruce had stood there for hours.

He had eventually fainted.  

Alfred had carried him back to bed, sitting by his side until it was dawn when he had quickly changed his rumpled clothing and prepared a smile.

He had pulled open the blinds. “Good morning Master Bruce.”

Breaking out of his reminiscing, Alfred settled on the mattress that sank down in response and slid a bare hand through Bruce’s hair, staring at the curve of the child’s pasty cheek, at the baby fat still lingering.

“Why’d they have to die Bruce?” Alfred whispered. “How could such good people die like that?”

There was no response.

Only the hum of the fan and the sound of Bruce breathing slowly.

And while Alfred desperately wanted one, he no longer needed one. He only needed to protect one person from ever having to be broken again.

The faint wind blowing in caused the curtains to flutter. The moonlight leaked in to highlight the soft shadows on Bruce’s face. The shadows of his eyelashes on his cheek, his fine hair that brushed across his forehead with the wind, his small thin hands that clutched the pearls and watch. He was a child. Too small, too smart, too compassionate to not be torn apart by the world. Alfred sighed staring out into the distance for a long moment before his gaze returned to his ward. He stood up, his eyes sorrowful and tired.

The butler smiled, “Good night, Master Bruce. Sleep well.”

He left the room, leaving the door open a crack.

* * *

Clark’s eyes popped open again for the third time that night. He groaned and rolled around in his stifling sheets to glare at the flourescent number on his clock. It was three a.m.

He fell back onto his bed with a thud, staring up at the ceiling. There were his familiar book posters. Family Photos. Drawings he had attempted.

He knitted his eyebrows.

Bruce...was screaming again. Clark knew nightmares, knew the dreams about him being circled and his classmates laughing at him, knew the dreams where he was abandoned... the dreams where he hurt Ma and Pa, but the pure terror he heard in Bruce’s scream and his body language, the sweat, the racing heart, the ragged pleas, the scent of blood from the ripped skin on his knuckles, was something Clark didn’t want to know.

Normal people didn’t gag themselves. Normal people didn’t scream like that in their sleep.

Bruce was...he was definitely strange. Oddly quiet, robotic, and if Clark had wondered if Bruce was a robot, well, considering Clark had the powers he did, it wasn’t completely unreasonable. He had spent all of supper looking for evidence, getting scolded by his parents several times for his intrusions.

Clark bit his lip, as his hearing faded out and all he could hear was the hum of his fan again and the crickets chirping.

He had heard the sound of crying when he was with Mr.Pennyworth and Pa and starting running, using superspeed by accident. Then time had frozen when he had seen the figure before him. His first thought was that “Master Bruce” was incredibly small. He looked so fragile. Like the wind could blow him away.

Then Bruce had turned and he had seen the red rimmed eyes; all he could think was of Pa that night when Ma had gotten into a car accident. The scent of hospital antiseptics and the sight of Pa with his broad shoulders hunched and his head bowed. The bright white lights and Ma so pale and thin, covered in tubes. 

Clark had wanted to comfort Bruce back at the dirt road. Instead Clark had made Bruce scared. 

The same as all Clark’s classmates. It wasn’t as if they knocked him around. Most of it was mocking jabs, or a general avoidance of him. He was unintentionally the ostracized class clown/troublemaker. With his abilities, he was clumsy to his classmates and he stuttered and sweated under there stares. He scared them. He was an anomaly in a small normal town that wanted anything but. And while he understood that people could be cruel, he had to ignore the same hope everyday as he walked into the classroom that maybe his classmates would’ve changed their mind about him. Some boys had even used his name in replacement for chicken noises while they flapped their elbows and strut around the room.

Clark the chicken. Most of the class was decent, but stayed away, and a few, like Lana - though she was a grade above him - bothered to meet his eyes. Clark blushed, thinking about her.

Clark was glad it was summer. At least he got a break from it all and he could use his powers, unashamed. But...he wanted a friend. He loved his parents, but they weren’t the same.

“Bruce...” He tried out the unfamiliar words and it tingled on his tongue. He had reminded Clark of one of the newborn calves; he had wanted to pat Bruce on the head and say, “It’s okay, it’s okay, you’re safe now,” but from what Clark had seen of Bruce so far, he might’ve been socked in the gut, and he didn’t want Bruce to break his hand.

Could they be friends?

Then his hearing turned back on and he flinched at the sound of muffled screams coming from the guest room. He could just make out a few words.

“Mom, dad....I’m sorry, I’m sorry I didn’t--I’m sorry.” Bruce pleaded and the drop of tears on the pillow sounded deafening to Clark.

He couldn’t ignore the twinge inside him. How could he even think about going back to sleep when he could hear the terrified sobs.

Clark put on his slippers, careful to watch the creaky floorboards, and sneaked past the rooms where his parents and Mr.Pennyworth slept, heart thrumming in his chest, before he reached Bruce’s door that was open just a crack.

He peeked in, holding his breath.

The moonlight veiled the tossing boy, a slight sheen of sweat on his pale face, crystalline tears rolling down the curve of his cheek. His eyelashes fluttered.

There was blood on his knuckle.

And Clark, at first slightly mesmerized by the inviolable sight, the sight of a person with all his walls down and so vulnerable, a sight meant for someone Bruce trusted, not a stranger like Clark, was frozen until he saw the blood.

He was by Bruce’s bed, shaking him awake before he knew it.

“Bruce! Bruce! It’s just a dream. Wake up.” Clark had to make sure not to shake too hard, withdrawing his hands in a panic as Bruce lashed out, his eyes opening, glistening in the faint moonlight. He hadn’t left bruises on Bruce, right?

“Al..fie?” Bruce’s expression was open and trusting with a sense of sorrow.

Clark felt his heart lurch. He probably should’ve called Bruce’s...butler? guardian?

“Uh. No. It’s Clark.”

Bruce’s distant eyes zeroed in on Clark all of a sudden and he sat up in a blink of the eye, rubbing his tears away. “Why’re you..” He clutched at his sheets, wary.

Bruce’s angry features made Clark frustrated and nervous. He should’ve called Mr. Pennyworth, but waking him up when the older man looked so tired didn’t seem like a considerate choice either. He looked carefully at the ruffled hair and winced at the loud sound of a thrumming heart beat, trying not to blurt out something ridiculous. What did you say to someone who was crying?

Clark cut in. “Do you wanna milk a cow?!”

Clark bit back a groan. He probably shouldn't’ have blurted out the first thing that came to mind.

Bruce furrowed his eyebrows. “Wha-” He paused, sniffling a little with his eyes still slightly hazy, his brow still furrowed as he thought before responding slowly, “Okay.”

Clark beamed.

* * *

Bruce put on his slippers and barely managed not to pull back when Clark put his hand up to his ear and whispered, conspiratorially “Follow me. Ma’s a light sleeper, so you have to put your feet exactly where I put mine.”

Bruce nodded. The last thing he had expected to wake up to was Clark of all people. Bruce was certain that he shown a very passive aggressive dislike of Clark with his polite and distant tone that he had learned from rich old ladies at galas, but thinking back, Clark had seemed to only get more excited with Bruce’s faint upper class accent and big words. Clark was either oblivious or too forgiving. Probably oblivious, Bruce decided.

Rubbing the sleep out his eyes, Bruce’s mind kept returning to the warmth and solitude of the bed. To the feeling of being alone, to his ascetic of his isolation  where there was no one in the world with him and everything was surreal, colored only by the distortions of his guilt and anger. He shouldn’t be there on the steps, behind someone he had just met that day. He should be dreaming, having that nightmare and seeing his parents, just so that he could see them alive for once, so that he could watch them die again. But his nose and feet were cold despite the warmth of the summer night and he didn’t want to think anymore.

It felt like too much effort to turn back, to garner up the strength to say to this strange boy that he wanted to go back; he didn’t want to disappoint another person. Like he did Alfred every single day. He didn’t want to have to explain, to have to speak and act. Because he felt numb, but if a single word passed through his lips now, he would start screaming at Clark. And he couldn’t do that to someone who had done nothing wrong.

* * *

Clark turned around slightly to peek at Bruce, beaming at the sight of the little shadow behind him who was perfectly following each of his steps expressionlessly. He was giddy inside. Going to go see Sarah and Betsy was a part of his morning routine, but usually Ma and Pa were awake first and having no one know what they were doing, thinking that they were still asleep made it feel much more adventurous.

But Clark knew anyway that his parents would approve even if he was technically sneaking out. Because some things were more important.

Bruce was staring down at the ground as he tiptoed towards the door.

The farm boy’s eyes flickered across the pale skin, luminous in the moonlight, and offered a smile that Bruce didn’t return. Clark smile turned lopsided into a considering frown.  Hopefully this would cheer him up.

Clark slowly opened the door, thankful that Pa was always thorough in his care of the old house and he stepped out onto the porch with Bruce close behind. The younger boy, in his borrowed pajamas, a few sizes too large for him, trailed behind. Bruce’s hair was sleep mussed and he seemed completely out of it, his eyes still half-lidded. With the faintest click, the door was carefully closed behind him.

Clark had made several expeditions like this on his own. They hadn’t been parent-sanctioned, but Clark hadn’t being thinking. He had simply acted. Nothing quite assuaged his worries like the smell of the dewy grass at night or sleeping under the wide expanse of sky. Like he was the only one in the world -- ignoring the fact that his super hearing cropped up inconveniently. He knew way too much about the neighbors and was well acquainted with the mating call of penguins.

Clark turned around to find Bruce who had frozen.

His eyes were wide and reverent at the night sky. His blue orbs lit up in the moonlight cast down on them and Clark saw what he thought was the first real smile he had seen from Bruce that day.

Above them, the black stretch of sky reached into infinity and the speckled bright lights that twinkled in the darkness dusted across the sky, each constellation burning bright.

Bruce was mesmerized.

Clark mentally applauded himself.

And realized he was holding his breath.

A slow gentle breeze rolled past them and the two boys stood there, reveling in the scent of grass and summer and nighttime.

When Bruce finally turned to look at Clark, there was a spark of life that hadn’t been there before, a thrilled look in his face with his flushed cheeks and his hair standing up everywhere.

He grinned, showing a gap in his teeth.

He looked like a child again.

Clark smiled back, satisfied.

He finally let out the breath he had been holding as he tugged at Bruce’s folded sleeve and said, “Race you to the barn.” And Clark couldn’t help the playful grin that slid out easy and natural. This was where he was home. On the farm, in the fields and he wanted to share it.

Clark took off, pounding his feet into the steady earth and at first it seemed like Bruce wouldn’t follow, but after a short pause and a definite look of loathing at Clark, he started sprinting. Clark blinked in shock.

Bruce was...really slow.

He probably didn’t have to do as much farm work...probably because he didn’t live on a farm. It was a foreign idea for Clark. This land was his home. This red earth and large sky. The seeds and animals. His dreams and hopes were centred around his parents and the creaking wood of the old home. He never understood Lana’s desire for something more outside of Smallville, but when he saw the sight of a sleek black car, and a boy so different from, just on sight, from what Clark had known, he was suddenly a little intrigued.

What was it like?

What kind of world did Bruce live in?

Because it had been a while since Clark had been this excited to know someone. He wanted to be friends with Bruce. Know how this kind of person came to be.

He was new, different and completely captivating.

With the way he talked, the words he chose, his smirks and tears, his way of walking, gesturing, his clothing...

If Bruce felt better later, they could play 21 questions because Clark wanted to know. He wanted a peek into this different world.

Suddenly, breaking out his thoughts, Clark realized that Bruce was lagging behind. He doubled back and saw the expected resentment as Bruce seemed to push himself further. Clark had to choke down his laughter.

And because he was giddy and he could feel the blood thumping in his fingertips and because he was home and happy and he loved the starry nights in Smallville, he lifted Bruce up, much to the younger boy’s shock and ran the rest of the way there carrying Bruce as if he was light as a feather. Bruce smacked him in the face several time, yelling something about boundaries and how he wasn’t weak and that if he tried, he could probably throw Clark across the corn fields.

But Bruce was yelling, and Clark was probably extrapolating the situation, but he felt like he had a friend for once.

Breathless and excited, Clark dragged a disgruntled Bruce into the barn, putting him down only to pull open the thick wood doors to see Betsy standing right in front. Clark heard a yelp of delight behind him and grinned even as Bruce tried to school his expression, but he failed miserably and he glared at Clark, fuming.

Clark slid his hand along her head as he whispered her a hello. She mooed sleepily and Clark grinned, lovingly before he waved Bruce over.

“C’mere!”

Bruce stared at him, the anger fading in exchange for curiosity, appearing tentative at first before he put up his bravado and stepped into the barn. At the smell, he wrinkled his nose before he gently placed a hand on the cow, finger running through the soft fur. There was a faint crack in Bruce’s expression and it turned into a full blown grin as she nuzzled his hand.

“She’s lovely,” Bruce murmured distractedly. They stayed there like that for a few moments before Bruce turned towards Clark and the 21 questions he had planned was turned on him, “How old is she? How many calves has she had? What kind of cow is she? Are you breeding? What else do you grow? How often do you have to milk her? Can you drink her milk without pasteurization?” And it went on and on until Clark, surprised at the mouth Bruce had on him, groaned in exasperation and opened the gate, sweeping a hand out, “C’mon lets milk her.”

All of a sudden, although the light in his eyes was still there, Bruce was hesitant again. “...are you sure it’s okay?”

Clark nodded,  with a satisfied grin. “We can collect the eggs too later.”

Bruce paused. “Do the eggs really come out of the chicken’s anus?”

“Well, yeah, where else are they supposed to come out of?”

There was a slight longer pause from the younger boy, “Well, people--yeah. Anus.”

Clark cocked his head and Bruce waved him away as Clark tugged him closer, pulling out a hidden bench and bucket. “We could do this robotically, but we’re not like the dairy farms and Ma and Pa like the hands on work. So what you do first is clean the udder really gently with warm water and soap....make sure you can make a quick escape in case they get moody-- though Betsy’s a good girl--” Clark grinned, cooing at the cow before his voice turned instructive again, “ and then you put on a lubricant...with a teat in each hand, you tug the base--” Clark pulled Bruce over and his hand onto the teat. “Yeah, like that. Squeeze down.” Clark grinned as he shifted to let Bruce sit down. “You can tug a bit harder if you want.”

At the sight of the milk streaming out, Bruce’s eyes went wide.

“And once these two are out of milk, you switch sides....”

There was only the sound of milk streaming into the bucket and the crickets chirping. Bruce was solemn and focused on the task at hand while Clark gently stroked Betsy, watching Bruce proudly.

After they finished milking both Betsy and Sara, and were just petting the large cows, Bruce yawned, blinking to keep his eyes open again, so Clark grabbed an old quilt and laid it on the hay strewn floor.

He and Bruce settled next to the two cows, right by the open barn door, watching the view of the brightening sky before they fell asleep. Neither of them said anything. Clark was certain that Bruce was lost in his thoughts; he had difficulty trying not to stare even as he wondered if Bruce like sports or books or people who liked sports and books and hoped that their car might not be fixed too soon.

When Clark woke up again to the sunrise and Pa’s proud pat on the back, he grinned before turning to see a the corner of Bruce’s lips quirked up in his sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry if this is weird, but I can never tell if someone wants a reply to their comment or not. So if you do comment, and want a response, put an @ at the beginning!


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